Nothing of all this have I done. Not a line. It is afternoon. We have most of us been to Church in the morning, except Boodels and Chilvern. Those who have not been, gave the following reasons for arriving at the same conclusion. _Boodels' reason._ That he had a nasty headache, and should not get up. [This he sent down to say at breakfast.] _Milburd's reason._ That the weather looked uncommonly like rain. That to get wet _going_ to Church is a most dangerous thing, as you have to sit in your damp clothes. _My own statement on the subject._ Milburd has puzzled me by saying it's going to rain. Is it? If it isn't, nothing I should enjoy more than going to Church. Wouldn't miss it on any account, except of course out of consideration for one's health. _Happy Thought._--I don't feel very well this morning, and damp feet might be followed by the most serious results. Miss Adelaide and Miss Bella are going. Their chaperonship this morning devolves upon Mrs. Frimmely, as Madame and the Signor are Catholics, and have been to mass, early in the morning, at St. Romauldi's Missionary College, near here. Madame is very strict, and the Signor is not partial to early rising. The College Service being at half-past eight in the morning, they have to rise at seven on Sundays, and then there is a drive of four miles. The following dialogue is overheard: _Time, 7.15 A.M. Scene, _Signor_ and _Madame's_ room. _Madame_ is up and dressing rapidly. The _Signor_ is still under the bedclothes._ _Madame_ (_severely_). Mr. Regniati. _The Signor_ (_pretending extra sleepiness_). My dear! (_He won't open his eyes._) _Madame._ It is exactly a quarter past seven. _The Signor_ (_snuggling down into the pillow_). I vill not be two me-neets. (_Disappears under bedclothes._) _Madame_ (_before the looking-glass, with her head bent well forward, her hands behind her back, lacing herself into determination_). Get up, Mr. Regniati. (_No sign of life in the bed._) Don't pretend to have gone to sleep again. (_Not a movement._) I know you haven't. I shan't wait for you when I'm once dressed. It's twenty-five minutes. (_Sharply._) Do you hear, Mr. Regniati? _The Signor_ (_re-appearing as far as the tip of his nose. Both eyes blinking_). My dear--oh! (_as if in sudden agony. Then plaintively_) I 'ave such a pain in my nose. _Madame_ (_backhairing energetically_). Fiddlesticks. _The Signor_ (_in an injured tone_). Oh! Vy you say zat? You know I do sof-far from my nose--and my head ache all ... _Madame_ (_coming to a dead stop in her toilette_). Mr. Regniati, you eat and drink too much. _The Signor_ (_as if horrified at lying under such an imputation, but showing no disposition to rise with the occasion_). Oh! My Jo! (_appealing to abstract justice in the bed-curtains._) Good-ness knows (_he pronounces it 'Good-ness-knows'_) I eat no-sing at-all. _Madame_ (_coming to the point_). Mr. Regniati, I can't finish my dressing if you stop there.